Fyodor Petrovich had long dreamed of visiting the cemetery where his son was buried. However, his declining health had made this journey difficult. He had prepared paint and tools in advance, and today, waking up feeling stronger than usual, he decided it was finally time. Over breakfast, he recalled noticing two months ago that the fence around his son’s grave was leaning, and the gate hung awkwardly. It wasn’t surprising—ten years had passed since he had laid his beloved boy to rest.

Sasha was not his biological son. Fyodor Petrovich and his wife had spent twenty years together but were never able to have children of their own. After much deliberation, they decided to adopt. At the orphanage, their attention was drawn to a frail five-year-old boy sitting alone, his sad eyes brimming with unspoken pain.

“Why is he sitting by himself?” Fyodor Petrovich asked.

“Sasha is different,” the caretaker explained. “His mother abandoned him six months ago. He clung to her, sobbing, refusing to let go. Since then, he has withdrawn from everyone, unable to forgive or understand her betrayal.”

At that moment, Fyodor Petrovich and his wife knew—they had found their son. Determined to show him that life was not just a series of losses, they took him on outings while the adoption process was finalized. He obediently followed their suggestions—eating ice cream, riding the carousel—but his eyes remained hollow.

It took a full year before Sasha finally let down his guard. One evening, he cautiously approached Fyodor Petrovich and asked, “You won’t leave me, will you?”

“Never,” he promised.

Sasha pressed himself against him and cried. From that day forward, they no longer saw him as adopted—he was simply their son. He brought them endless joy, excelling in school and later enrolling in a military academy, an uncommon path for boys from their small village. During holidays, instead of resting, he helped his parents with chores. The villagers often remarked on how fortunate they were to have such a devoted son.

Sasha served in the military for several years, often deployed to dangerous regions. His parents worried when they went long periods without hearing from him. Eventually, he was discharged due to health issues. His once-bright spirit faded, and two years later, he fell gravely ill. By the time doctors diagnosed him, it was too late.

After Sasha’s passing, his mother did not live long. Fyodor Petrovich was left alone.

One morning, he stepped outside and his aging dog, Buyan, rose to his feet. The dog had grown old, its muzzle gray. In human years, he and Fyodor Petrovich were nearly the same age.

“Well, Buyan, shall we go visit Sashenka?” he said. “Let’s go.”

As if understanding, the dog wagged his tail eagerly.

They locked the gate behind them and set off down the dirt road. The cemetery lay beyond the village, requiring them to walk through town and another kilometer beyond.

“Good day, Fyodor Petrovich! Where are you and Buyan headed?” called out Maria Stepanovna, a neighbor.

“Hello, Maria Stepanovna. I’m going to visit my son and my wife. The fence needs repairing, and I plan to give it a fresh coat of paint.”

“But how are you holding up? You’ve been unwell. Why not ask someone for help?”

“I have no grandchildren to ask, and hiring a stranger… well, they’d take my money, and I’d have to redo it myself. It’s better this way.”

They continued on. At the cemetery entrance, they passed a man unfamiliar to Fyodor Petrovich. He didn’t greet them, an oddity in a village where even strangers exchanged pleasantries.

Inside, the cemetery was in disarray. A recent storm had left broken branches strewn everywhere.

“We have our work cut out for us, Buyasha,” he sighed.

The dog growled low in his throat.

“What’s gotten into you? That stranger bother you? I didn’t like him much either, but it’s none of our concern.”

As Fyodor Petrovich gathered branches, Buyan began to dig furiously at the base of the fence, barking frantically.

“Calm down, boy,” he said, moving closer.

Buyan kept digging until a cardboard box appeared beneath the soil. It had been buried recently—the damp earth had not yet soaked through it.

Fyodor Petrovich’s hands trembled as he tore the box open. Inside, wrapped in rags, lay a tiny newborn baby girl. She squirmed weakly, her mouth opening soundlessly, too exhausted to cry.

“Oh, dear Lord!”

Without hesitation, he scooped the baby into his arms and rushed toward the cemetery exit. Buyan bolted ahead, barking as if calling for help.

He ran straight to Olga Sergeyevna’s house—the retired village paramedic. She was outside when she saw him approaching, panting, clutching the infant.

“Fyodor Petrovich, what happened?”

“Found… buried… in a box…” he gasped.

The baby whimpered softly. Olga snapped into action, wrapping the infant in warm towels. Her husband called emergency services and the police while the entire village gathered, murmuring in shock. Someone handed Fyodor Petrovich heart drops.

The next morning, an unfamiliar car pulled up to his house. A tall, sturdy man stepped out, carrying a box.

“Are you Fyodor Petrovich?” he asked.

“That’s me,” he said, standing with difficulty.

“My name is German. I’m the baby’s grandfather. You saved my granddaughter’s life.”

He placed the box on the table beside a thick envelope.

“This is for you—some treats, and money for anything you need. I know gratitude can’t be measured in money, but I don’t know how else to thank you. Please accept it.”

Fyodor Petrovich sat heavily in his chair.

“My daughter married a man I never trusted,” German explained. “He only wanted her for money. When she became pregnant, I hoped I was wrong. But she died in childbirth, and I didn’t even know. The baby survived, but my son-in-law… he tried to get rid of her. He’s been arrested. My granddaughter is all I have left of my daughter.”

“I understand,” Fyodor Petrovich said quietly. “Is the baby alright?”

“Thanks to you, yes. She’ll be okay.”

Days later, Fyodor Petrovich returned to the cemetery, intending to fix the fence. To his astonishment, a new black metal fence had already been erected, with white gravel covering the ground and elegant headstones marking his wife and son’s resting places.

“German,” he murmured, understanding. “Thank you, kind man.”

That evening, Maria Stepanovna noticed Buyan return home alone, restless. Sensing something was wrong, she gathered the neighbors, and they hurried to the cemetery.

There, on the bench by his son’s grave, Fyodor Petrovich sat peacefully. He had passed away.

German arranged his funeral. Buyan, refusing to leave his master’s side, passed away two years later and was buried beside him, remaining faithful to the very end.